


Held Nor Free

by cofax



Series: Life During Wartime [7]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: AU, Apocafic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cofax/pseuds/cofax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for some people the end isn't enough</p>
            </blockquote>





	Held Nor Free

Monday's dawn found Walter Skinner sitting on his balcony with  
the last of the bourbon. Seventeen flights was too many stairs  
to deal with when he probably had a concussion. It had seemed  
wiser to wait in the apartment until the power came back on. 

It had been nearly an hour before he realized that the power  
wasn't going to come back on. 

Ever.

 

***

 

"It's coming. It's here. Get as far away from the city, as fast  
as you can."

Mulder's voice had been breathless, and utterly serious.   
Skinner had held the phone in his left hand and swiveled to  
stare out the window. The October sun flashed off the windows  
of passing cars. He closed his eyes against the glare.

"Take care of Scu--take care of each other." After six years,  
it was all he could think to say.

And then Mulder was gone. 

Skinner dropped the handset into the cradle and continued to  
look out the window.

He would probably never see his two most troublesome  
subordinates again. The thought was surprisingly painful, but  
not sharply so -- it was more a dull ache, a growing pressure  
behind his eyes that would become a migraine before the day was  
out. 

There was a sense of relief, too. He would be alone now; the  
interminable battle was over. He'd felt like a pawn, moved now  
by the smoker, then by Krycek, but never able to help when  
Mulder or Scully needed it most. Maybe now he was off the  
board. Now he would just be one of the millions who would take  
their chances with whatever was to come. 

So.

What to do now? Go home, pack a bag, drive out to the Eastern  
Shore, or west to the mountains, and wait for the end? There  
was something tempting in that. Just to sit on the beach,  
watching the waves roll in, and drink that bottle of JB he'd had  
in the bottom drawer of his desk for the past eight months. 

He and Sharon used to go to the Outer Banks for a week every  
August, but he hadn't been to the beach since she left. They  
would take their drinks out onto the porch, watch the darkness  
climb west across the sky and the stars come out of hiding. On  
the warmest, clearest nights you could see the faint shadows of  
bats winging across the stars. It was so quiet there, even with  
the crickets and the occasional owl.

"You have to get away from the city," Mulder had said.

It seemed unsatisfying. There had been so many sacrifices made  
along the way since the day he joined the Marines in the certain  
knowledge that he was doing right by himself and his country.   
Now he felt as if at every step along the road from there to  
here he had lost a piece of himself. If he looked behind, he  
could see them all, sparkling cheerfully in the sunset, like  
bits of cracked glass.

There wasn't much left.

Mulder was running. 

*But I'm not Mulder.*

Skinner shook his head. Mulder was right to run; he probably  
had a plan. But Mulder wasn't about to tell Skinner any  
secrets; that avenue had been blocked the day he told them to  
close the file on the nanotech investigation. And Scully had  
always been dubious about Skinner, ever since she learned he  
kept an ashtray on his desk.

Maybe if he'd done more, fought harder, defied Krycek and the  
smoker, there might have been a chance to prevent this. Mulder  
and Scully would do everything they could: they always had.   
What shamed him now, as it had shamed him for years, was the  
realization that he had not.

Well. It wasn't too late to change that.

Skinner reached for the phone. Then he paused, his hand  
hovering over the keypad. He had to assume it was tapped, that  
all of his usual means of communication were compromised. To do  
what he needed, he had to have some time.

He headed out to the bullpen. There were other phones.

 

***

 

It was after 10 p.m. on Sunday when Skinner walked into his  
apartment and dropped with a sigh onto the couch. The past  
thirty hours were a blur. Slouched on the couch, he realized he  
hadn't even had a chance to sit down since well before noon.

He dropped his head back and removed his glasses so he could rub  
his eyes. Snatches of conversation from the last day and a half  
swirled through his brain.

\-- full alert by 0700 tomorrow. DCPD will coordinate with --

\-- seen her, sir. She doesn't answer her cell or her page. --   
\--Never mind, agent. Listen, can you --

\-- do you think you're doing, Skinner? Do you really think you  
can get away with this? --   
\-- As long as they'll let me, Al. They seem to have other  
things on their minds. --

\-- informant refuses to come in, thinks if he blows his cover  
they'll change the schedule. Possible targets include the  
Capitol Building, public transit systems, the Supreme Court --

\-- A coup! You're shitting me!--   
\-- This infection reaches into every level of the military,  
Jack. Even up to JCS. Just - just be alert. Find officers you  
trust and keep them by you. That's all. --

\-- all on-duty personal to be within ten minutes of HQ from 0700  
Sunday on. All personal leaves are canceled. --

\-- sir, the AG has been calling -- 

\-- budget vote on Monday but key Senators have gone back to  
their districts, or have disappeared entirely. Half the Joint  
Chiefs are out of town -- 

\-- Peter? Did you hear me? --  
\-- You don't want to do this, Walt. --  
\-- Pete --   
\-- Walt, don't do this. --  
\-- click --

After the first veiled threat, he had kept his back to the wall  
and two senior agents with him at all times. Moving from  
building to building, changing offices, changing phones. It was  
a start. Whatever *it* was, not everyone in the military or the  
government was in on it. Maybe when it happened, some of the  
men and women he had alerted today would be able to minimize the  
damage, give direction to the populace. 

It wasn't enough, but it was more than he had expected to  
accomplish; he had half-expected a bullet in the head by the end  
of the day yesterday. He had finally dismissed the bodyguard at  
the door to his apartment; the security system he had installed  
last year was damned near impossible to circumvent. 

So why hadn't they killed him by now? Was he so minor a threat  
they didn't even bother to stop him? Or had he merely been  
forgotten in the race to get out of town? If so, he hoped that  
Spender and Krycek would forget about him long enough to let him  
do a little more. 

Jesus, he was tired. He had to be back at the Bureau no later  
than 6 a.m. but he was too wound up to sleep. With a sigh, he  
heaved himself upright and walked over to the liquor cabinet. 

The bottle of Johnny Walker Black was already on the counter. 

*Shit.*

As Skinner swung around, right hand reaching across to his  
shoulder-holster, he heard the familiar voice and knew he had  
not been forgotten after all.

"Pour me a shot, too." Krycek's voice was lazy, but there was a  
touch of strain in it. "Gotta have a drink before the world  
ends, you know." The bastard stepped out of the shadow of the  
kitchen doorway and leaned against the jamb. His left arm hung  
loosely at his side, but the other hand held a gun. He didn't  
point it at Skinner so much as motion with it. "Your gun."

Skinner drew out his weapon with careful fingers and tossed it  
on the floor. Krycek kicked it into the kitchen where it spun  
lazy circles on the linoleum. 

"What do you want, Krycek?" Skinner turned away from him and  
poured himself a shot of bourbon. He knocked it back and closed  
his eyes a moment before turning back to face his -- keeper. 

*Little fucker. Just let him get near me without that damned  
machine, just once.*

"Didn't you hear me? I said, the world is ending. Don't you  
care?" Krycek laughed, and dropped bonelessly onto the couch.   
Skinner glanced at the bottle. The level was down by half. He  
wasn't sure he liked the idea of a drunk Krycek any more than a  
sober one. They were both poisonous.

"I know the world is ending, Krycek. Why do *you* care?" He  
thought about having another drink; it wouldn't be the smartest  
thing he'd ever done. On the other hand, he wasn't likely to  
survive the next fifteen minutes. He knocked back another shot,  
wincing a little as it went down.

"Oh, I care. It's my world, too, you know. And what they have  
planned for it -- Jesus Christ, Skinner, you have no idea."   
Krycek's expression was not one Skinner was familiar with; it  
took him a moment to identify the emotion. Why was *Krycek*  
worried?

"No, I don't. And didn't you plan it? You're in this up to  
your neck, Krycek--"

"Not like this. It's that motherfucker Spender! It's all his  
idea! It's so fucking twisted, and -- aw, shit, look at the  
*time*!" Krycek staggered to his feet, but his gun-hand was  
disturbingly stable. He waved Skinner back towards the couch as  
he edged towards the door.

"What about the time?" Skinner asked as he backed towards the  
couch, keeping his hands in clear view. 

*Where the hell is the Pilot?*

If there was a chance Krycek hadn't brought it, it might be  
worth the risk to jump him. If he could kill Krycek, he'd  
happily take the chance that someone else knew about the damned  
machines in his bloodstream.

"I gotta go. But you tell them, Skinner, you tell them I warned  
you." Krycek pointed with his chin towards the sliding glass  
doors, as if a jury sat there, twelve honest men perched in  
wooden chairs on Skinner's balcony.

"Tell who? About what?" 

"Scully. You tell her -- " and he managed to pull a scrap of  
paper out of his jacket pocket without letting go of the gun --   
"it's all here. Everything she needs. You tell her I saved you  
for this. You can find them. Mulder's an idiot, but Scully --  
she'll figure it out." He dropped the paper at his feet, moved  
it forward with his foot, sliding it across the carpet. "They  
won't believe me, but you -- they'll believe you. And it's  
true, all of it."

"What! What's true?" Skinner's eyes were fixed on Krycek, not  
the mysterious paper on the floor. 

Krycek stepped back a pace and nodded towards the paper. "Pick  
it up." He sounded far more sober than a moment ago. "Go on,  
pick it up. If I wanted to kill you, I could have done it when  
you walked in the door."

True. Skinner stepped forward cautiously and bent down to pick  
up the sheet, keeping his eyes on Krycek. But after it was in  
his hand he glanced down to look at the document, and then  
Krycek moved. The boot caught Skinner in the jaw and knocked  
him sideways. He caught himself before he hit the coffee-table  
but before he could stand up, Krycek was there in front of him.   
He saw a gloved hand and a gun, moving fast, then nothing.

 

***

 

When Skinner awoke the lights were out. The apartment was  
silent and dark, and after a moment he realized how odd that  
was. The air-conditioning was out. There was no traffic noise.  
And there were no reflections of the city's lights on the wall  
of the living room.

He climbed groaning to his feet, and fumbled through the living  
room until he found the flashlight by the door. It didn't work.  
He shook it irritably and went into the kitchen. After knocking  
several dishes off the counter he located a pack of matches, and  
a few candles in a drawer. Back to the living room. He lit one  
candle and set it upright in the shotglass. He looked at his  
watch; the digital face was blank. He went into the kitchen,  
candle in hand, and looked at the clock over the stove. 11:40  
p.m.

*Jesus my head hurts. I'm too old for this shit.*

Hadn't it been around 10 when he came home? It had to be well  
after midnight now.

He used the dim candle to light the inside of the freezer while  
he pulled out a bag of frozen peas. It didn't alleviate his  
headache much. The alcohol probably wasn't helping either.

The paper Krycek had given him was on the coffee table, weighted  
down with the bourbon bottle. Skinner held it closer to the  
candle. The writing was thin and hurried, just a jumble of  
words and numbers.

"Infection 30%, mortality 50%  
0.85^k = target/6b, where k is iterations

Cholera   
Typhus   
Yellow Fever   
Malaria   
Smallpox  
TB   
Marburg   
Lassa 

R&D at Detrick. Coordination centers at Sill, Jackson, Belvoir,  
Drum, China Lake, Huachuca, Mountain Home, Umatilla, McCoy,  
Wainwright."

Lassa. Marburg. Cholera. Skinner wasn't an epidemiologist,  
but he wasn't a fool. He'd sat through more than one high-level  
seminar on biohazards and international terrorism. He'd  
participated in anthrax drills.

*Jesus.* This was very bad, even if he didn't quite understand  
the formula at the top. Infection rates of 30% and mortality  
rates of 50%? Krycek was right -- this was fucking twisted. He  
started to crumple the paper in his fist, then stopped and  
smoothed it carefully on the coffee table. It was evidence, of  
a sort. Proof for Scully.

Scully. Mulder. *Shit*. Skinner had no idea where they were,  
where they were heading. 

He opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the  
balcony. There were no lights visible except for a vague  
flickering glow off to the northwest. No jets rumbled overhead,  
climbing out of National. 

Skinner knew there were local cops and agents out on the  
streets, directing traffic and trying to prevent looting in the  
poorer neighborhoods. The blackout had probably trapped  
thousands in the Metro, underground in the tunnels. He should  
be down there, keeping order, saving lives.

Skinner stood on the balcony for a long while, watching the  
darkness and listening to the occasional voices that drifted up  
from the street two hundred feet below, not thinking. He heard  
some gunfire in the distance. Then he went back inside. 

There was a post-it note on the front door. In the strangely  
formal script Skinner remembered from the days when Krycek had  
been Mulder's partner, the note said: 

"Deliver the message." There was a long break, a few illegible  
scribbles, then, "The pulse fried the nanites. You'll be  
shitting the little buggers for a week."

Near the bottom of the yellow square, written very small:

"Don't thank me. By the end of the week, you'll wish I had  
killed you after all."

 

***

 

Walter Skinner sat on his balcony and watched the sun rise  
through the haze that lay over the capitol of the United States,  
and realized that Krycek was probably right about all of it. He  
took another swallow of Johnny Walker. This was the last of it;  
he didn't know when or if he'd get any more.

There were shouts in the streets below, and crashes, and  
gunshots. To the northeast were the Capitol Building and  
various museums and memorials, but they were shrouded in smoke.   
It looked like there were fires in Georgetown. Even from here,  
seventeen floors above the world, he could smell the reek.

It wasn't going to get any better, the longer he waited.

He looked at the bottom of his glass, then out at the Potomac  
and the deconstructing city beyond it. 

"Fuck you, Krycek." He threw the glass as far as he could into  
the dawn, and went inside to pack a bag.

**Author's Note:**

> ***
> 
> As ever, much thanks to Maria and Marasmus, helping come  
> up with nasty ways to end the world, and helping me see the  
> world through surly burly eyes. Special thanks to nevdull, for  
> the formula, and M. Sebasky, for not allowing me to be lazy.   
> Virginia, you're the best: thanks for the machetes. The title  
> for this comes from "Dead Man Walking (A Dream Like This)" by  
> Mary Chapin Carpenter, from the soundtrack for the movie of the  
> same name.


End file.
